The Further Tale of Sikanda
by Amaris Moon Bux
Summary: My continuation of a story left unfinished in Michael Ende’s “The Neverending Story.” However, no characters or even places are copied. All are my own creations. The only thing that the original book and my fan fic have in common is a rusty old swor


The Further Tale of Sikanda  
  
  
Sometimes it is good to forget the past. Without history to tell, one only has their future  
to look to. And surely, this is most vital to those whose pasts are tainted with dark deeds. No  
matter how different they appear, nor changed they seemed to have become, they will never be  
given a second chance, until their past is erased.   
  
"Does this look like a good place to you, old boy?" asked the traveler of his faithful little  
horse, who whinnied and nodded his head in response. "Good." the boy assured himself as he  
carefully jumped from his saddle and landed on the ground with a muted thud. The country had  
seen many months without a one droplet of water falling within its boundaries. Thus the earth  
was a dull tan, and great cracks stretched on for miles, some even wide enough to waylay  
travelers, such as young Faphín.  
"You know what needs to be done, my friend. I'll be right back. Now stay here." Faphín  
informed his horse, as he struggled to walk towards what had once been a patch of trees before  
the great drought had struck. Upon arrival, the young boy sifted through the dry leaves and dead  
tree branches that littered the space around him. He picked up a small twig and held to close to  
his face, so that it nearly touched his nose. He squinted at it through the half light. "No . . . better  
keep searching." he whispered to himself, trying to keep his spirits high.   
Sleep had not found Faphín for many nights now. He had been traveling for over a week,  
since hearing that his father had taken ill, and that he was greatly needed back home. Of course  
he'd made the journey between his parents' house and his own many times over in the past. Since  
the drought however, he had never attempted it. Water was expensive, even more so than gold,  
and Faphín simply could not afford the amount he'd need for himself and his faithful little horse  
to make such a demanding trip.  
Faphín, dizzy with thirst and exhaustion, lowered his aching body to the forest floor. He  
reached his arms out behind him, trying to steady himself. As he moved his arms back, he felt  
something round and smooth pass soundlessly into one of his open hands, as if of its own will.  
He swung his head around, and examined the stick that had seemingly found him. "It's . . . it's  
perfect!" he coughed, as he slowly got back to his feet. "Haroldshoes!" he shouted with the  
loudest voice he could find through his thirst. "I've found it, old boy!"  
With great effort, Faphín dragged himself back to where his horse, Old Haroldshoes, was  
loyally waiting for him. He crawled into the great animal's shadow, where the heat was slightly  
less intense, and proudly displayed hid find. "Look at it, my friend. This is our answer!" Old  
Haroldshoes squinted down at what his master held out, and shook his wooly mane, neighing in  
disbelief. Faphín reassured him "I know it may look like an ordinary stick, boy, but it will find us  
water. You'll see!"  
Since the rain had stopped falling, many of the inhabitant's of Faphín's country had taken  
it upon themselves to learn the art of divining, or locating water underground. What Faphín had  
discovered, (or perhaps what had discovered Faphín,) was a divining rod. Now he held it just so,  
and explored the area, looking for the water that would save him, his horse, and perhaps his  
father with them.  
"Our luck is changing now, Haroldshoes, I can feel it." asserted Faphín, as he tried to  
force a conversation with his horse. "I think the crack is finally narrowing. Perhaps by tonight  
you'll be able to jump over it!" Old Haroldshoes whinnied and tossed his head back with  
disapproval. "Oh, once you've get some water in your belly, I'm sure you'll feel differently."   
Old Haroldshoes and Faphín should have been at his parents' house by now. But like so  
many, they had been waylaid by the drought itself. The first several days of their journey had  
gone by uneventfully, as usual. They had been making exceptional time, considering how little  
water they had, and their spirits were high. But on the fourth day, they saw the one thing on the  
horizon that Faphín had half-knowingly been dreading: a great crack. They were used to the  
small cracks of course, which covered every inch of ground throughout the land. But Faphín had  
also heard rumors of gigantic cracks, too wide for even horses to jump across, and too deep to  
risk climbing into, which spread on for miles. This one was perfectly adjacent to their road, and  
so Faphín had been forced to take a detour to the South. They'd been following the crack for five  
days now, with no sign of it narrowing, or ever coming to an end. Old Haroldshoes had drank the  
last of their water the night before, and Faphín knew they would not last another day unless they  
could refill their canteens. The divining rod was their last hope, unless a dragon happened to pass  
over, which seemed highly unlikely. Buthwy, the deliverer of messages to the remotest villages  
upon his dragon, Hethrue, and who had delivered the urgent message to Faphín just a week  
earlier, had said that he would not be making any more deliveries for at least a month. The  
drought had taken its toll on even Hethrue, and he needed a holiday.  
Stumbling along, barely able to keep upright, Faphín trudged on, divining rod in hand.  
But it did not point out hidden treasure: water under the cracked earth. Finally, Faphín began to  
despair.  
"Maybe it's no use, old boy. I'm just wasting what little time we have left. . . if I give up  
now, we might still be able to make it." Faphín announced as he lowered his rod. Old  
Haroldshoes bowed his head, as his master neared. "Just a few more steps," Faphín told himself.  
But his legs would not budge. He was rooted to the spot. As the traveler gazed down at his feet  
through half-closed eyes, he realized that his divining rod, which he still clutched in his numb  
fingers, was pointing straight down, of its own will. "What . . ?" he muttered, before realizing  
what it meant. "Old Haroldshoes!" The horse lit up, and trotted towards Faphín. He positioned  
his body, so that his master could reach into the saddle bag, and retrieve the little shovel within.  
Faphín found enough strength to dig, knowing that he would either find water, or die  
trying. Old Haroldshoes did his best to help by keeping the flies off his master with his brushy  
tail. On the brink of collapse, Faphín finally struck something with his shovel. But it was not  
water. The sun was disappearing over the horizon, and it was getting harder and harder to see by  
the minute. Faphín struggled in the deep hole he'd dug to locate the object he had heard strike his  
shovel with a distinctly metallic clang. In complete darkness, Faphín blindly thrust his hand  
downward. For a brief moment, he felt something rough and cool press against his palm, then felt  
nothing.  
When Faphín woke up, the sun was shining down upon the barren land. He gulped, and  
was shocked to discover that his throat was no longer parched. He tried to recall the events of the  
night before, and whether he had indeed discovered water, but his memory alluded him. "Old  
Haroldshoes!" he shouted, in a moment of panic. Then it all rushed back too him. The desperate  
search for water. The darkness. His thirst. And finally, a cool, rough object. Faphín stared  
downward, and his gaze met a sight he never would have expected. A scabbard, rusted from its  
long stay in the ground, rested in his palm. His strength curiously renewed, Faphín easily jumped  
out of the hole and drifted towards a rock, next to which his faithful horse had waited all night  
him. "Good boy, Haroldshoes." Faphín said as he stroked the horse's muzzle and lowered  
himself onto the rock. His eyes had been fixed on the strange, rusted scabbard the entire time  
however.  
"Imagine that, old boy, a sword!" he said, turning the scabbard over and over in his  
palms. A simple, perhaps even crude hilt was visible poking through the rust. "My divining rod  
must have detected the metal." he continued, as he tried to pull out the sword. But it wouldn't  
budge. "Urgh, the sword must be rusted in there!." Faphín paused to wipe the sweat from his  
brow. "What a shame, I've always wanted one. But perhaps, not all hope is lost, eh, Old  
Haroldshoes?" Faphín stood up again, and placed the scabbard back into his saddle bag, along  
with his shovel. He gracefully leaped onto his horse's back, and gave him a hardy pat on the  
neck.  
"Today is a fresh day! I feel as if I could jump across this curséd crack! What about you,   
boy?" Haroldshoes whinnied and reared up on his hind feet. New life had mysteriously gushed  
into the parched bodies of young Faphín and his horse, and now no drought nor crack could  
waylay their road. 


End file.
